A/N: We're going to be waiting on Assassin's Creed 4 and I'll STILL be writing drabbles on these two. Fucking love this couple. Hope this bit of fluff is fun for you to read! Enjoy!

A change is as good as a rest.

1182AD

A warm breeze blew at the top of the Masyaf towers, sifting over the two boys and drying the sweat that beaded on their foreheads. It disturbed their hair, gently tousling it to and fro. Altaïr crouched on the rampart, shirtless, a smug expression on his face as he surveyed the city he called home. A wound on his back oozed blood while Malik meticulously wiped away grains of sand and flecks of dirt, grumbling the whole time.

They had recently returned from a small settlement just north of Masyaf, where their simple training mission of retrieving a flag had soured like old milk. Oh, they retrieved the flag alright, after being thrashed by an old woman who thought they were thieves after her goats. The soldiers came afterward, and outnumbered Malik and Altaïr three to one.

With no choice but to run, they had turned tail and barely managed to evade capture; one of their attackers managed to catch Altaïr in the back with the tip of his blade, but they escaped…and just barely, by diving into a large pile of unattended hay, where they had waited for several hours for their pursuers to give up. Sweating, dirty, bloody, and tardy in completing their mission, the two had returned to Masyaf to be scolded by Al Mualim. Not a very good day, but, of course, very little could put a damper on Altaïr's monstrous ego.

At seventeen, he acted like he was a grown man and strutted about as if he were already ranked as a Master Assassin. He was nigh unbearable, and Malik couldn't understand why Al Mualim seemed to favor him above the others in their group. Altaïr was a loner, always had been, and he had no respect for anyone other than himself. Some days Malik suspected Altaïr liked being the outcast.

Malik, three years Altaïr's senior, felt as if he did more babysitting than training. With Altaïr he had to watch both their backs, mainly because Altaïr was so needlessly reckless. Malik was tired of being held accountable for the mistakes made by the other. He felt he was a man now: he was older, more experienced, wiser, and he even started to sprout hair on his cheek. He wanted to move on, but Altaïr refused to be paired with anyone else during their ridiculous training missions. It was as if he knew of Malik's desires and was doing everything in his power to keep him from achieving those goals. It was so like him.

"I think Master Al Mualim was pleased, overall," Altaïr said, while Malik cleaned the cut on his back with a damp cloth.

"If by 'pleased' you mean utterly disappointed," Malik returned solemnly, "then yes, he was pleased." The cut wasn't as bad as Altaïr had made it out to be earlier, just long and thin. It looked more like a lash mark than anything, and while Malik was loathe to assist Altaïr any further, he felt a certain obligation to care for the other; perhaps it was instinct derived from caring for his younger brother, Kadar, for so long. Altaïr sighed and kicked his legs out to sit down, his golden gaze on the tiny city below them.

"You're such a pessimist," he said. "I think we did well."

"You would find something to gloat about in such a poorly executed mission."

"Of course," Altaïr boasted, drawing in breath to puff his chest out, "I saw nothing wrong with my performance…"

Malik stilled his hand as he was about to apply a cool salve to the wound. Narrowing his eyes and half-knowing what was about to come, he asked, "What are you implying?"

"Admit it, A-Sayf," Altaïr said, smirking over his shoulder, "that old hag wouldn't have seen us if you hadn't sneezed."

Malik's ears flushed and his cheeks darkened as blood rose to his skin at the accusation. True, he had sneezed, but it hadn't been his fault! They had crawled through the dirt, and there was so much dust from the drought…and he had turned his head to sneeze into the crook of his arm, so he knew he hadn't been that loud, certainly not loud enough to alert the old woman to trespassers outside her home.

"You wish," Malik snapped back, "she would have heard us anyways with the way you stomped across the rooftop! You do not know the meaning of subtlety!"

"You're one to talk, always grumbling and complaining under your breath, as if I cannot hear you. She probably heard you moaning and complaining and thought you were another woman!"

"Wh—how dare you! I do not sound like a woman!"

"How dare you!" Altaïr repeated, his voice mockingly high-pitched. Malik pursed his lips and quickly smeared the cool salve across Altaïr's wound, hoping the sting would shock him into silence. Sensing further opportunity, he began to massage the salve in, forgoing all gentility. Altaïr arched his back away from Malik's punishing fingers and let loose a sharp cry, which soothed Malik's ire marginally but did nothing to mend his wounded pride.

"You wonder why no one else can stand you," he said through grit teeth, grabbing Altaïr's shoulder to keep him from squirming. "You wonder why you have no friends—maybe if you stopped being so arrogant and condescending to everyone you meet, others wouldn't find breathing next to you grounds for competition."

Altaïr whined and twisted around to give Malik a pained, haughty look.

"Then why do you stick around?" he demanded to know, his upper lip curling in a sneer.

"Perhaps because I see you for what you really are," Malik said, "and perhaps I feel sorry for you."

"What do you see?" Altaïr asked, his eyes betraying his feelings. He looked a little worried, almost. Malik just smiled.

"I see a boy who has yet to become a man, who childishly demands respect from others when he does not deserve it. I see a boy who cares for no one but himself, who is arrogant, lonely, and sad, who desperately wants to be loved and feared at the same time, who desperately wants to please. That, Ibn-La'Ahad, is what I see when I look at you."

Altaïr's cheeks reddened and his eyes widened in shock. Malik felt a strange sense of pride in his chest, welling up to the point of bursting, for he had finally rendered the Young Eagle speechless for the first time in…well…ever!

"You...y-you…," Altaïr stuttered, presumably too flabbergasted to say anything intelligent. Malik laughed, preening over his triumph. It wasn't often he got the upper hand on the smug bastard. Altaïr always seemed to know just how to tease Malik in a way that would anger him, but Malik could never seem to break past the impenetrable wall surrounding Altaïr's mind to get back at him.

Of course, he was too deeply immersed in the pleasure of his own victory to pay attention to the bony fist aimed right at his face. Knuckles met with jaw with a thunderous CRACK and both boys went rolling across the parapet, grappling, punching, kicking, and, in Altaïr's case, biting.

Malik cursed roundly, damning Altaïr to the deepest pits of hell as he tried to slap at the boy's back, aiming for the wound. Altaïr seemed to be everywhere at once and didn't give Malik the chance to defend himself. He was almost feral in his delivery. Finally unable to take the barrage of fists any longer, Malik threw his arms up on front of his face and howled mercy. Altaïr grabbed a handful of thick, black hair and knocked Malik's hands away from his face.

Both bled from their nose, and Altaïr's lip was split from one of Malik's early blows. Bruises formed around their eyes and on their cheeks. They remained still, Malik flat on his back and Altaïr straddling him, both breathing heavily through their mouths. For a moment, Malik thought Altaïr would strike at him again, or at the very least demand an apology. He could see the untamed look in those golden eyes and, for a brief moment, allowed himself to feel a twinge of fear. But then, the moment passed, and Altaïr looked the same as ever, albeit a little more bloodied up than usual.

"You're…you're a bastard," he snorted, giving Malik's cheek a firm slap. He got up and offered a hand to Malik, who brushed the appendage aside and got to his feet by himself. Blood ran down Altaïr's back again, along with more grime and dirt. Sighing softly to himself, Malik picked up his damp cloth and refolded it so he could use the clean side to rewash Altaïr.

They resumed their positions, Altaïr carelessly dangling his legs over the edge of the ramparts and Malik behind him, cleaning the wound and clucking his tongue as if nothing had happened. That was usual between them, though, almost routine. They argued, they fought, and they silently forgave one another and moved on with their lives. Malik had almost grown used to it, though he was indeed weary of being beaten—Altaïr may have been younger and slighter, but he was fierce and fast, and he knew just where to hit. Malik could feel a lump on his jaw from that first strike and knew he'd have to either lie or explain to Kadar what had happened.

"Do you think things will ever change between us?" Altaïr asked suddenly, surprising Malik out of his quiet contemplations. Malik managed to brush the question off with a slight shrug.

"I doubt it," he said. "We're much too different to ever be anything other than rivals, but you are also my brother, through the Creed, and, if it ever becomes necessary, I shall tend to you."

"So I shouldn't expect you to do something like this out of the goodness of your heart?"

"Most definitely not, imbecile."

1205AD

The air within the castle was stifling, and sweat dripped from their chins. Their heavy robes did nothing in the way of helping cool them off, and eventually, they discarded everything except their linen pants. Altaïr rolled his up to above his knees, but Malik suffered in silence as he began to tend to wound on Altaïr's back. It was long and diagonal, shallow, but wide. He had been caught with a broadsword, no doubt, and had traveled three days without aid before reaching Masyaf. Malik sighed heavily and washed the dried blood away, scrubbing hard in some places as he tried to avoid more tender areas. Altaïr hissed here and there, but kept most of his pain hidden.

"Dare I ask how this happened?" Malik drawled, picking at a scab before dipping three of his fingers into some salve. Altaïr chuckled and then winced as Malik's gentle touch began to rub the salve against the slash mark.

"It's a long and intensely boring tale," he said. "I was just being foolish…thought I could outrun a couple guards, but they…well, I suppose I have to admit that I'm not as young as I used to be."

Malik allowed a brief smile to pass his face. The situation shouldn't have been funny at all, but Altaïr usually found a way to slip in a light joke or two, or say something that he knew would amuse the other. No joke ever spared him from being wounded, but it helped to know that he was only trying to ease Malik's discomfort.

"I never thought I'd live to see the day," Malik murmured. "The Great Eagle of Masyaf, humbling himself to admit that he is not almighty and invincible as so many believe him to be."

Altaïr shook his head and groaned a response as one of Malik's deft fingers worked some salve deep into the wound. He relaxed into the touch, though, a sigh of relief fleeing his body as the warm burn worked its way throughout his entire back, numbing the pain.

"You act as if I am incapable of change," he said, turning to give Malik a sly look.

"You act as if you are incapable of change," Malik said, smiling gently. There was very little he could do for the wound except wrap it; until the swelling went down, he would not be able to sew the wound shut. Picking up a roll of bandages, he handed one end to Altaïr and bade him to keep a hold on it.

"Then tell me why I've come so far since we were boys," Altaïr said, twisting further until Malik nudged him back into place.

"I suppose one must give Allah credit for performing miracles…"

"Malik…"

Malik could only chuckle, pleased that he still managed to worm his way beneath Altaïr's admittedly thick skin. His friend was becoming frustrated, and he frustrated so easily that it was almost a crime to tease him so. Malik tucked the edge of the bandage into the wrapping and tied the other off. Pleased with his work, he patted Altaïr on the back.

"There, there, now," he soothed, "I do not mean to imply you are still as foolish as the young man I used to know. You've become much wiser since then, if perhaps a little slower in reflex."

"An arrow through my heart," Altaïr mumbled, leaning back into Malik's chest. Both men sighed and Malik automatically rested his hand on Altaïr's chest, stroking his dusky skin in a familiar fashion. Altaïr took hold of Malik's wrist and squeezed gently, moving his thumb back and forth as he did so. The two sat in silence for some time before speaking again, and when Malik finally opened his mouth, it was to praise Altaïr…something which he did very little of, lest it all go to his friend's head.

"You have changed," he whispered into Altaïr's ear, lips brushing the outer shell. "You are not the boy I used to know, and I am glad for it."

"I feel as if the man I used to be is another person, someone outside and beyond myself."

"Perhaps it is so. Nonetheless, whoever you used to be, it has no bearing on the man I now call my friend. You are older and wiser, and you have lost the arrogance which used to infuriate me when we were but boys. Truly, you've risen above and beyond my expectations for you…I can think of no other man worthy enough to rule over Masyaf. Or its people."

Altaïr turned his head just enough to ghost his lips over Malik's jaw, a silent 'thank you' for the kind words spoken to him. He knew Malik's abhorrence of needless flattery, and knew that any form of praise given was not done so lightly. He appreciated Malik's thoughtfulness more than he had words to express.

"Thank you, brother," he said, sighing and relaxing further into the warmth of his friend.

"Do you recall that day when the old woman chased us halfway back to Masyaf?" Malik asked suddenly, and Altaïr laughed, immediately knowing what Malik was speaking of.

"Yes," he chortled, "she chased us with a broom, right into the arms of the local soldiers. We were a sorry sight upon returning to Masyaf."

"You were wounded, on your back, do you remember that as well?"

"Of course, you cleaned me and dressed my wounds. How could I ever forget your kindness, however long ago it was?"

Malik sighed and pet Altaïr's chest, running his fingers through the light smattering of coarse hair.

"Perhaps you also remember the cruel things I said to you, as well?" he asked.

Altaïr was silent for a moment, and then nodded slightly.

"Yes," he said, "yes, I remember…but what does it matter? It is in the past. Leave it there, where it belongs, and think no more of it."

"Will you forgive me, then? I said things I should not have, and—"

Altaïr silenced Malik with a swift kiss and a cheeky glance. He stole the words right off of Malik's tongue and a bit of smugness came into his expression. Those golden eyes of his were as expressive as ever; he was amused, something Malik had not foreseen.

"Why do you agonize over such trivialities?" Altaïr asked, reaching up to stroke Malik's cheek. "After everything we've been through, after all I've done to you and all you've forgiven me for, do you really think that I'd hold such a grudge against you? Over something silly said between us more than twenty years ago? Perhaps you do not think me so changed after all."

Malik sputtered, quickly trying to retract his words, because he could never have meant such a thing, not ever! He had only meant…well, it had been weighing on his heart, especially when he saw the newer wound overlaid across the old, the thin, pale scar reopened, reminding him once again that Altaïr was not invincible, and that he had come to care more for the man than he would have believed twenty years ago.

"You leave me at a loss for words," Malik muttered, unable to say anything else. Altaïr smirked and kissed his chin, snuggling back down against his chest and closing his eyes, content and satisfied with himself, no doubt.

"Go to sleep, brother," he mumbled. "You are absolved of all past crimes against me, words, deeds, and otherwise. Rest now, unless you wish to dredge up more ghosts from our past."

Malik shook his head, took the hint, and closed his eyes, his heart and body warmed by Altaïr's words. He would not worry about things said in the past from now on. He had no need to.